


Melt It Down In The Rain

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crack, Dirty Talk, M/M, Multi, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not gonna eat you. Not like that, anyway. Told you, rescue's coming. We've only got to wait out the bloody red tape... "</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is no excuse for this except that I wanted porn.

"You're a what, exactly?"

It’s neither the first nor even fourth time this question’s been asked. There’ll be more, too, Spike knows. "Vampire." 

"So that would be the _children_ of the -- "

Spike sighs and waves a hand. "Please, that poncy crap is for Dracula. Gypsy tricks done to lyric."

"And you're different." 

The dryness is a change from snark and emotion-charged sarcasm, stillness where there's normally flailing arms that still don't quite seem like fluid attachments, but the results are pretty damned similar. He can read this one like a damned book, which is a nice change from captors who don’t seem to want to do anything but make Spike scream. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, really, but it’s getting tiresome. The human -- Sheppard -- tilts his head and tries to keep his eyes steady again. Like that’ll hide what Spike knows is going on. 

He lets his legs fall open because he's never been ashamed before. Besides, shaggy hair and 8 am shadow to the contrary, this one's military through and through. Up front's a better policy.

The smirk is manfully swallowed down when Sheppard's eyes immediately drop.

Oh, yeah. Primed and ready, this one. Probably from the moment they tossed him into the cell.

"I'm not interested in being dinner," Sheppard says. The words are hard, no matter how soft and bristly his face looks, eyes locked on every shift and shadow. "I've spent the last two years running away from your space-haunting cousins, successfully, and the irony of being kidnapped and tortured on earth and presented as a snack for a _real_ vampire is a little on the Everest side. So if you try something, given my current realities, I'd probably kill myself rather than let you have a meal. Just to let you know."

"Dead, alive, makes no difference to me." Spike shrugs, putting his whole body into the act. Sheppard -- a Colonel, apparently -- actually _gulps_. "Blood's better when it's fresh, sure, but I've lived on freeze-dried and refrigerated for, oh, near on ten years now. I can wait."

The air of their cell is thick and damp and doesn't lend a lot of help to dramatic pauses. Sheppard's got the face for it, though, long and dark and full of angst that’s refracted from the surface, easily fooling those dumb enough to be taken in by it. The pause lengthens, almost totally silent but for the rapid thud of Sheppard's heart.

"Refrigerated,” Sheppard repeats. 

"And freeze-dried, if we're on missions. Tastes foul, but I've had your MRE's before."

"You're on the wagon." 

It's an accusation more than a question, an odd turn. Makes sense, though, coming from someone who plays with the shadows as much as Spike thinks this one does. He lets his silence do the answering, which turns out to be a wrong move. The quiet slips and deepens, long-lashed eyes fluttering as Sheppard sinks back into his own fractured thoughts. “Hey, Sheppard,” Spike says. “Oi, you in there?”

He doesn’t think the question’s all that pointed, but Sheppard grunts and says, "Sheppard, John, United States Air Force number..."

It's the same litany he'd been mumbling when they first shoved him into Spike's cell a few hours ago, dirty and half-clothed, nearly delirious from several days worth of torture and deprivation.

"How long since you've had a break, mate?" He uses his nibbit voice, the one that sends little Joyce to sleep when he's watching her for Dawn: low, and gentle, and close enough to hypnotic that cranky babies and weary, exhausted Colonel's start drooping after the first word. "How long've they been shunting you from cell to cell, hm? Few days now? Maybe more? Rescue's coming; you know it is, but the people you've got, they don't know these kinds of monsters. So you've got to be strong, got to stay as alert as possible, get some kind of word out so they've a haystack to look for."

Spike's not certain when Sheppard's last had a bite to eat, but it's been a while. He'd survive like this for a few more days, provided there weren't any unsouled vampires interested in a drink -- delirium made for a nice spice, after all -- but Spike isn't too certain how useful Sheppard would be after rescue.

Bloody hell, this soul stuff is annoying, even ten years and a few domestic responsibilities later. Christ, Xander's gonna kill him. And Dawn's gonna shred whatever bits are left over. That's _two_ nights he's missed, and god, she gets cranky when she misses her evenings out. 

"... five four six one ... "

Oh, right, soldier boy. "I know," he soothes, carefully inching himself across the floor to push into Sheppard's space. The man's near gone, but Spike's dealt with humans like this before. Granted, he'd come at them from the other end of the spectrum, but the methods work the same regardless of intentions. "You've just got to hold on a bit longer, that's all," he murmurs. "Rescue's coming. For me, if no one on your end's put the pieces together, and Xander'd string me up for sodding garters if I abandoned you. The fact that you're hot just makes it nice for me."

Unsurprisingly, the last bit jolts Sheppard out of his daze. "Huh?"

"Back again, are we?"

Sheppard blinks, head rolling as he tries to focus. There's a line of sweat cut through the dirt on his neck, granulated edges almost pristine to Spike's vision. He wants to lick it. The way the pulse would flutter underneath his tongue, fast and frantic and so ready to just fall into whatever he wants... God.

"... eat me?"

Forcing his gaze upward, Spike reads the question in glittering green eyes. "Not gonna eat you. Not like that, anyway. Told you, rescue's coming. We've only got to wait out the bloody red tape, really, since it's international and Angel hates dealing with that crap and... and you've no idea what I'm talking about. Right. Hey -- hey!"

Grabbing the slumping man, Spike forces him upright and backhands him across the mouth. Sheppard's lower lips cracks and starts to bleed. "Ow."

"Stay awake, you hear me?" Christ. There's no help for it. Not that it's really a hardship, but he's got to move a little faster than he'd like which is always chancier. The cavalry better get here damned soon, is all, or Spike's going to lose this one no matter what he does.

Fuck, he hates it when he's got to pull a Dracula card. It makes him a hypocrite.

"Easy," he says, smoothing out his voice the way his hand smooths down Sheppard's naked chest. Strands that should be coarse and crisp wilt away from his touch, but Spike ignores that. They both need baths. And it's nice to play with a bit of curl, when he's used to mostly smooth and silky. "S'all right, I told you that, didn't I? Doesn't matter that I'm a vampire. I'm a prisoner, just like you, and that makes us kindred. Brothers, even, and brothers help each other out. So you just let ole Spike take over a bit. Keep you nice and rested. Keep you alive, so you can be rescued."

Sheppard sighs, shifting restlessly as he's touched. He's not fighting it, but that's probably because he's not really conscious of it. It's a prisoner's trick Spike’s familiar with. He knows ways around it, but it's probably better now if he doesn't try. Sheppard doesn't need to know he's being petted, fingers tracing patterns he'd never recognize into his skin – his body knows. That's all that matters.

"Sure you're not going to eat me?"

Spike chuckles, pressing the sound into a mop of dirty hair. Must be a bitch to comb out. "Scouts honor."

"Not a," there's a sharp inhalation as Spike skirts the edge of a burn, "boy scout."

"No, but I've eaten one before. I'm not nice, Colonel Sheppard. I'm only partially house broken after all this time. But you're too scruffy for me to eat, Nerf Herder, and besides."

He never gets to explain his 'besides' -- which is good, as he has no idea -- because Sheppard arches, gasp rattling in his throat as Spike runs his nails over his belly.

And that's... interesting. Not because it's an intimate touch, although it is. And Sheppard's certainly reacting to it, exactly as Spike wants him to. No, what's interesting is that Spike forgot to concentrate and ended up scoring a bit harder than he'd meant to.

Four red lines stare up at him from beneath the spreading arrow of hair across Sheppard's stomach.

"Well, now. Isn't that just fascinating," he says, repeating the action. Once again, Sheppard gasps and arches, moaning slightly. It's the hunger and pain that's leaving him so open to this, but Spike's made a study of kinks. And when a _vampire_ says he’s studied something, that means decades of research and observation that no living scientist can ever match.

John Sheppard, Lt. Colonel in the US Air Force and a commander for something called the SGC, likes pain.

"Is that how you managed to last so long? Let yourself enjoy it just a little, riding on that edge even as you screamed and screamed until I wanted to gag you to shut you up?" _Score_ , Spike thinks when Sheppard moans again, head rolling against Spike's shoulder. Not just a pain kink, but a full-on bottom kink. 

Intellectually, Spike gets that this is probably unusual for the Colonel, something he may know and even indulge, but never to this kind of level.

But Spike also knows that _both_ of them are hungry and exhausted and hurting. Sheppard's probably never asked. But Spike's only recently started listening for the offer.

He shifts carefully, moving him up and Sheppard down, cursing the other man for being such a long bean-pole. Harder to work with, but once he's got the distances right, it turns out to be okay. One leg is draped over Spike's, pants easily undone and pushed open.

"Mm, aren't you a big one? Good thing Xander's not here; he's such a bloody size queen I'd probably have to kill you to keep him." He's rambling, but Sheppard doesn't seem to mind, so Spike lets himself go. "Not that he's such a catch, really. Bit of an annoying prat, actually. He talks a lot, but his blow jobs aren't that great. He's a nice fuck, sure, but he prefers doing the fucking too much. A good relationship's about compromising, innit? Sharing. Like you're sharing with me, letting me touch this big cock of yours, stroking it nice and slow. We've got time before those pissant jailers come back. Their patrols are as predictable as a good Swiss time keeper's. Rotten policing, but it gives me a nice long while to work on you, get you horny and desperate for it."

He doesn't actually need a long time, though, not the way Sheppard's hardening in his hand. The man's body is thrumming with heat and need by now, the scent heady enough that Spike has to fight a little harder for control. He _wants_ to hurt Sheppard. Wants to push him down and rut against him until Sheppard's bruised and bleeding, little droplets clinging to his skin like Hershey's kisses, mixing with come before Spike licks it all off. He knows Sheppard will taste _good_ if he does that, the rush of relief and transmuted pain adding a kick that'd keep Spike pepped for hours and hours and --

"Hurts."

Spike watches the way his nails scratch at the base of Sheppard's cock, whites fading into pink. "That a bad thing?"

"No," Sheppard grunts, air straining through his clenched teeth. "More. If it hurts, I s-stay conscious longer."

"Smart lad," Spike agrees, adding a twist and a squeeze he knows will hurt. Sheppard shudders, voicing a rough moan. "You _have_ been using this, letting yourself enjoy it just the tiniest bit. Got a face you use?" The head shakes 'no', but Spike knows better. "Liar. Bet it's somebody. A superior officer, maybe? Barking out orders to stay away, dammit. Telling you what a slut you are, a loser who'll never make it up with the big boys unless you do this for them. Really make it worth their while, too, prove what a pretty toy you can be up at Officer's club. Would you suck their cocks? Let them touch you, spread your legs open wide so they could see what they're about to fuck? I bet you would. Bet you'd bend over sweet for 'em."

Actually, Spike can't see anything of the sort -- military blokes rarely make for uncomplicated pets like he's been describing -- but it's dirty and forbidden enough that reality doesn't much matter. Sheppard's trying to swallow back his moans, staying quiet and still as he's jacked hard, fast, and just a little bit rough.

Spike knows he could go rougher. But not yet.

There's chaffing, for one thing.

"N-no," Sheppard says. The silence's gone on too long. "Don't -- don't take orders well."

"Then you're in the wrong line of work," Spike scolds, adding a twist that has Sheppard arching like he's been shocked. Pretty. "So, not a superior officer then. How about a subordinate? That's always fun. Colonel's got to have minions to order about, and watching them scurry like ants, hopping when you lift a finger -- mm. That's hot enough that even straight officers get off on it. But I bet there's one, isn't there? Good at taking orders, but he's got a mind still. Manages you as much as you manage him, taking care of the little things so you don't have to disturb all this precocious hair of yours. A subtle lad, bit on the quiet side, but willing to stand up when you need him to. Get hard when you need that, too. 

"Maybe invite him into your office after hours, lights all dim, blinds closed. He'll be so deferential, inquiring what the Colonel wants or needs, and he won't even blink when he's told that what the Colonel _needs_ is a dick to suck. He'll just stand there, let you open him up and suck him hard, bobbing up and down while he tries to remember not to clutch the Colonel's head or shove too deep into his mouth. You won't mind, though. You'll want it, want him to bruise your throat, so when you’re snapping out this and that, it aches, your voice gone raspy. And maybe, maybe if he's good, you'll push him down and tell him not to move so you can climb on up like he's a pony. Your very own personal Colonel ride, slamming yourself onto his cock, over and over, wishing he could fuck you as hard as you want him to. You could ask, too, and he'd say ‘Yes, sir!’ even as he drills you into the desk, bruising your hips and thighs where he grabs you. You won't, though -- " 

"Because it'll destroy the chain of c-command," Sheppard moans. There's a hint of resignation there, almost like Spike's _right_ , something Sheppard's cock seems to agree with. It's shading towards red now, the tip wet every time Spike scores over it, although he doesn't let his hand get too slick. It’s burning from the friction, and Sheppard's got to be in serious pain, but all the man does is pant and toss his head back and forth in enjoyment. "Can't. W-won't."

"That's right, you've got to worry about that idiotic non -- er, reality, there, don't you? Regs. So how about outside of the military. Somebody you work with. Maybe a tech, one of the ones who services the planes in exchange for a bit of servicing from you? Let him lube you up good while he's lubing the plane, fucking you hard and rough in exchange for keeping you fast and sweet in the air?"

It's a cliché, and a poor one, and Spike's certain if Sheppard were slightly more aware he'd be rolling his eyes in annoyance and not lust -- but he _isn't_ aware, and Spike's seeing more white than black-laced green right now. Just in case, Spike cups Sheppard's sac, rolling the balls within before squeezing down tightly enough to force out a yelp.

"What else," he says, hoping Sheppard's gone enough to answer without paying for it later. "Who'd you see, back there, who could hurt you until you begged them for a little more, cock so hard even those morons would figure out what a bitch you are?"

He hasn't stopped stroking, the rasp of skin on skin in counter point to Sheppard's labored breathing. The sounds suddenly fill the room as Spike's control, tenuous at best, hangs between them. He's enjoying this, of course. Hell, he's ready to come in his own jeans from working Sheppard like this, but the point isn't his pleasure. It's keeping Sheppard just high enough, just long enough that afterward the man _doesn't_ conk out and sleep his way into unconsciousness. Instead, he'll float along so a vampire who'd learned those poncy, ridiculous gypsy tricks could give Sheppard just a nudge to _stay_ dazed and awake and calm --

"S-scientist," Sheppard hisses. "God, loud and a-arrogant and -- _fuck_ , so damned smug -- "

Spike's eyebrow raises -- _interesting_ \-- but he’s careful not to comment on the way Sheppard goes even harder, fucking himself into Spike's hand when he doesn't move it fast enough. "Coworker, then," Spike surmises. He has no idea where _this_ line is, but since Sheppard's brought it up, he's not going to worry about it. He's always good at improvisation. "Smug, you said, arrogant and loud. Probably likes giving orders, then, snapping them out, expecting you to jump without looking. I've met a few of those, so certain that they can push-button their way to the secrets of the universe."

"Oh, god, yeah, _Rod -- "_

The word gets swallowed away, and Sheppard's so damned close that Spike has to tug sharply on his balls to keep him back. He hopes like hell that Sheppard has a chance to come down before seeing this 'Rod', otherwise it's going to get interesting real quick. Nothing's more vulnerable than a torture victim fresh out of captivity.

Spike swallows and finally does what he’s wanted to do from the first moment: dropping his head so he can lick a swath up Sheppard's neck. Even though he's filthy, the taste is just so damned good -- sweat and old, dried blood, crumbling like feta on Spike's tongue.

The way Sheppard moans and tilts his head for more doesn't help, dammit. He does it again, then a third time, tasting the way Sheppard's heart flutters and begs for more --

Improv. Right.

"Probably can't decide if you're leading him or guarding him, since that type never listens. So you end up trailing along, can't figure out if you're one or the other, except your dick's hard and it knows what it wants. He knows it, too. Knows that one day you'll get separated, just the two of you, and he'll look you over like you're a bit of formula, bits and bytes he's got to put together correctly. You're too busy trying not to pant to offer up much resistance, so when he says to get down on your knees, they're immediately aching from impact." 

Spike honestly has no idea where he's going with this. Military types he knows enough about to make some guesses -- finding the ones who wanted to be bitten was always a treat, after all -- but scientists? The closest he's got to that is Illyria, and he doubts the attitudes of a god-king are comparable. 

It doesn't seem to matter, though. Sheppard's probably not even hearing him anymore, face flushed and dotted with sweat Spike licks off as he fucks himself as hard as Spike's jacking him off.

"You'll suck him, do it his way, mouth soft when he wants it, head still so he can skull-fuck you when he wants that. You'll take it, you'll _love_ it, dick hard and wet as it slaps your belly each time you sway backwards. Is that what you want?"

Sheppard almost fucking _whines_ his agreement. He's rocking on his back, now, legs lifted up, pants bunched around the ankles, in automatic obedience to the tale Spike's spinning, keeping himself exposed and easy. It's fucking _hot_ , but a bit creepy, too. "Yeah," he moans. "F-fuck, _yeah."_

"Oh, he'll do that too," Spike promises, mentally shrugging. "Probably won't even leave his computer, just position himself so he can still type while you’re fucking yourself on his cock. Hell, he probably won't even look at you, just tip-typing away while you sweat and groan around him, squeezing so you make him feel so damned good. So he'll have to look at you, throw you down on your back and rut against you, fucking you deep and raw -- "

Sheppard bites his lip clean through. The blood is fresh, tantalizing, and Spike has no willpower left. Not with his words affecting him nearly as much as they're affecting Sheppard. So he sucks that broken, jagged wound into his mouth, moaning at the droplets exploding on his tongue, and shoves a spit-wet finger up to the first knuckle inside Sheppard's body, holding him while Sheppard goes deathly silent as he convulses, coming hard enough that Spike feels it on his _chin._

For one terrifying second, Spike's certain Sheppard's heart stops.

And that pushes him over, something deep and primal and covered in blood screaming ‘Yes!’ even as Spike frantically tries to remember if CPR starts with the heart-massaging or the lung-filling.

But then Sheppard does start breathing again, a thundering heart beat slowly calming even as Spike rubs against his hip until his own aftershocks ease.

"Oh, fuck," he pants against Sheppard's neck.

"Can't tell anyone."

"Who'm I gonna tell? My ‘boyfriend’?" 

Sheppard cracks an eye open at that. "You actually have a boyfriend? Thought you made him up. The size-queen."

"He _is_ a bloody size queen, and no, I didn't sodding make him up."

"Mm, that's good." Sheppard fumbles with his pants until Spike starts helping; it takes both of them to get Sheppard at least covered if not cleaned up. Then he curls right into Spike's side. "Too damned bony. Mm. Don't let me fall asleep."

Spike blinks at him owlishly. "Er. There was supposed to be things, now, words and mystic shite that -- oh, fuck it. Never was much good at that, anyway. Look: if you don't fall asleep, I'll let you suck me in a few hours, how about that? Be good for both of us."

"Do vampires ejaculate?"

"Yes! We sodding well ejaculate. We also, sometimes, come in our trousers like we died at the age of twelve."

"So... not them, whatchamacallit it -- neuters?"

"You've read Anne Rice?"

"Nope." Sheppard seems entirely comfortable against Spike's shoulder. "I've had girlfriends who read her, though."

"Figures. Bloody cow. At least Stoker got some things right, but that repressed, idiotic woman set us back _decades_. What's the use of being sex personified if people are certain that we can't have sex?"

"Rescue soon?"

Against his better judgment, Spike closes his hand around the back of Sheppard's neck, ruffling the cowlicks there. The skin is warm, but not feverish or clammy. Nice to touch. "Yeah. Soon enough. No sleeping, now."

"Nope. 'Cause later, I get to suck you."

"Yes, you do. Hell, might even do you some good. Dunno how many nutrients are in vampire come. Oh, maybe you should -- "

"Not a chance."

Eyes shut, Spike smirks. The answer's expected. "Pushy bottom."

"Mm." 

* * * *

When Spike opens his eyes, a familiar badly tiled ceiling greets him. A quick inventory tells him he's had a few bags, minimum, intravenously since he's only got a few more aches and pains to worry about. Nothing serious. In the distance he can hear Xander's low murmur against a strident, agitated, very _fast_ talking voice.

"Rod?"

A murmur pulls his gaze to the left where Sheppard's patched up and looking pale against starched-white blankets. "Rodney. McKay. And if he finds out -- "

"Oh, please. If you're here, and he's out there, you honestly think that Xander didn't do the same for him? If only to shut him up for a few minutes? Christ, I didn't think anyone could out whine Red, but he's making a fair run for it." Almost instinctively, Spike crosses himself. It's a useless gesture, but Willow is _mean_ when he gets caught.

Sheppard quirks up an eyebrow almost as thick as his hair, thinking. His chin is blue with stubble. "McKay doesn't really calm down much after sex," he says. He shrugs at Spike's look. "Not with me, anyway."

Spike slings an arm over his eyes. "If it works, you'll send me a sodding bill for counseling, all right? In the mean time, the babblers have noticed we're awake."

The recriminations come first, of course, an eerie duet about the IOA and General Landry harmonizing perfectly with the Council and Angel being forced off their arse by Xander's worry. Next comes the bridge about the daring rescue, complete with combining forces and sniffing out each other's differences like wary dogs. Rodney takes the high, frantic notes, forcing Xander to do the calmer explanations, something Spike can tell he's completely bemused by.

He also knows that Xander sucked Rodney off. He can tell by the way Xander toys with his fingers, a secret code they've worked out over the years. He squeezes back once -- all's well. Besides, he likes Sheppard, so he's glad Xander could do for his whatever McKay is to the Colonel. Just as he's pretty damned certain Xander likes McKay, if their brief interlude about the realities of Star Trek is anything to go by.

"McKay! Focus. You just met up with that other vampire guy, Angel, when ... ?"

"Oh, just shut up. You can hear the rest of it later, when you aren't on _morphine_ , because they _tortured you_ , and you probably resisted so they tortured you more, because you're the strong, stoic, _moronic_ type and -- "

"Okay, okay." Sheppard glances over at the two of them, almost shyly, before looking back up at Rodney. His expression silences the other man like an off-switch. "I'm glad to be back," is all he says. Rodney just nods, but there's a flush high on his cheeks, fingers knotted in blankets that absolutely, definitely do not correspond to where Sheppard's fingers are.

Spike figures they can do the group fucking in a few days. Sheppard'll need more time to heal, after all.


	2. Two Great Tastes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't directly related to the first chapter, just another stream of consciousness porn about the four of them together, somehow.

I was thinking the other way around because John would go all defensive and reserved and Spike would turn on the charm, seducing him into laying down on the bed, letting Spike just rub his back a little ... and then lower, of course, and John would want to move, but Spike is stronger and *holds* him down, forcing him into the bed, and that makes something cold and hard crack inside John and his dick is suddenly so hard ...

And Xander and Rodney would talk, and probably fool around, and Xander would finally get that the insults were more amusing than meaningful and then he'd ask what he thought john would be doing right now and Rodney would ask about spike and then they'd look at each other and try and figure out a way to sneak into john's room.

and john would be on his hands and knees, nearly sobbing into the mattress as Spike used every bit of no-refraction-time-necessary to fuck john and fuck him and fuck him, staving off orgasm as long as he could, but not *stopping* even when John did come, just flat out using his body, playing it the way only Spike knows how to play with humans, forcing him conscious and aware if immobile, while pleasure and pain just _wrack_ through him and Rodney will be gasping, humping the air like he's fucking john and Xander will slide in behind him, wrapping an arm around Rodney's waist, letting him grind back against his cock while they watch.

and Xander will say things like "he's so *good* at that," and "he can go forever, till you can't take a single second more" and "your turn soon, soon'll be you he's touching like that, breaking you open and putting you back together"

and Rodney will say something about humpty dumpty but Xander's stroking him by now and John's hyperventilating into the mattress, sodden and gorgeous and somehow hard again despite way too many years and too many orgasms, and Xander says "go"

and Rodney dives forward, lipping over John's cock, gentle since it has to hurt, giving him something to push into even as he reaches around to find Spike's balls, palming them and rubbing them, while Xander comes up and starts sliding slick fingers inside of Rodney, working him loose, telling him all the things Spike's going to do to him, all the things Spike does to *him*.

Then John finally collapses, not asleep, but barely awake, and Spike's working Rodney, now, and Xander will slip behind Spike and push into him, holding himself still while Spike rocks back and forth between them, working on pleasing both of them as much as he can while Xander tells Spike exactly how hot he looks, fucking grown men who know better then to let themselves be shared like this, and Xander's hard, so damned hard, but he's had spike that morning, just an hour before, too, so he's okay to have a single orgasm, hard and sweet, but he waits.

He needs spike to come first, to stop worrying about Rodney, how's nearly unconscious by now, and John who's curled around Rodney, legs tangling into Spike's bent ones, murmuring softly while Rodney breathes drunk and erratic into John's skin.

"Almost there," Xander tells Spike, pressing kisses into his neck and letting his fingers trace over Spike's belly, feeling ab muscles work as he glides forward and back. "That's right, baby, push him over. Make him feel so *good*, the way you do. Give it to him, spike. Be a good boy."

And Rodney's chanting good boy under his breath, no idea what the words mean, and John's going 'shh' and 'yours' and 'i've got you, come on, it's okay' and Xander's still talking to all three of them, now, until Rodney comes a final time, so hard it leaves him floating in nothing at all, and Spike's whining, making desperate, needy noises as he slips out of Rodney and begins pushing back hard hard hard into Xander's driving hips -- and then John's saying yeah, please, show me and rodney's nodding, breathless and pleading for what he isn't certain, collapsed on top of John who's holding him like he's precious, like he isn't stockier and heavier and probably making him breathless, and then Spike comes, hard enough that he vamps, eyes yellow and sightless, body shuddering around Xander, who manages maybe two more seconds before he's coming too, driving himself deep enough to hurt, into Spike's body, shoving them all down into a tangled pile of sex and sweat, semen and sleep.

And when they wake up, John tucked up against Rodney, the way Spike's curled up in Xander's arms, it's Xander and Rodney who wake up first, Rodney demanding all the ways Xander's restrained such sexual grace, and Xander's smiling as he gives tips and suggestions, while Spike and John just share slit-eyed smiles, sleepily content as their lives are planned out for them.


End file.
